


They Shall Not Grow Old

by DementedPixie



Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [17]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Remembrance Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22650184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DementedPixie/pseuds/DementedPixie
Summary: Doyle helps Bodie to remember the fallen.PLEASE DO NOT RE-POST THIS STORY ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264832
Kudos: 8





	They Shall Not Grow Old

**Author's Note:**

> My name is Demented Pixie and I’m a Pros fan, but that hasn’t always been my name. If you knew me as In Love With Both and you’re a friend, then you’ll already know why I left the fandom some years back. But, hey, a girl can change her mind, and I have therefore decided to re-share my Professionals fanfiction on this amazing Archive – no changes, no improvements, no alterations. I’ll be posting them just as they were written. No comments, no trolls, and no betas. Just me and my stories. I’m sharing them so that they can take their place in the archive, but I’m also sharing them for the Pros generation, for those future generations yet to discover Bodie and Doyle, and for Sandra, who has never ceased waving pompoms for all Pros fanfiction writers.  
> The following story was written by me in 2014.

They Shall Not Grow Old  
By ILWB

Doyle was in the kitchen indulging in a bit of rare Saturday night domesticity when Bodie’s code rang on the doorbell. After pressing the button to release the door lock he went back to stirring the pasta, calling out to his partner when he heard the front door open and shut again. 

“I bought you a poppy,” he called. “Couldn’t get the pin to behave on mine so I stuck it in my jacket pocket. Maybe you’ll have better luck with yours. I thought maybe we’d go and watch the parade at the Cenotaph tomorrow. Have I ever told you that my Grandad was at Ypres? He died at Passchendaele, 1917.” Wiping his hands on a teacloth he walked into the lounge to find Bodie gazing at him, his mouth slightly open. “What’s wrong?” 

Bodie closed his mouth. “Nothing. Thanks.” He picked the poppy up from the table and turned it over in his fingers, staring down at it. 

“You coming then?”

“Er...what?”

“To the Cenotaph.”

“God, no.”

Doyle’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Bodie...”

“Just drop it Doyle, okay?”

“Right.” Doyle looked him over, carefully, taking in his pale countenance and storm filled eyes which were still looking down at the little red paper flower. He stepped towards him, almost unwilling to find out the reason behind his obvious unrest but at the same time simply unable to stop himself. “Bodie?”

Bodie looked up at him, the poppy still firmly in his grasp. “It’s about remembering, isn’t it?” he asked, quietly, “and I don’t want to remember.” 

“Tell me,” said Doyle, simple and direct. 

Bodie swallowed, noisily, taking his time to reply. “I lost...friends,” he began. 

“In Belfast?”

“Amongst other places. Some shot, some blown to pieces right next to me. There’s been too many of them. I don’t want to remember what happened, Ray.”

Doyle reached out a hand and waited patiently for Bodie to give him the slightly crushed remains of the poppy. He shook his head at it. “You don’t get it, do you, sunshine?” he said, gently. “It’s not about remembering the trauma, it’s about remembering the people. Cos if we don’t remember them, Bodie, then what they died for becomes meaningless. And I don’t believe my Grandad’s life had no meaning, any more than your mates in the Para’s.” 

Bodie’s shoulders slumped slightly as he sat down, heavily, on the wooden dining chair. Doyle deliberately smoothed out the petals of the poppy and placed it carefully on the table once again. “For they shall not grow old,” he said, in hushed tones, “as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”

A ghost of a smile lit Bodie’s face as he looked up at Doyle. “Poetry, 4-5?” he said.

“I can do it too, when the moment is right,” admitted Doyle. 

Bodie sighed, and picked up the poppy once more, fiddling somewhat clumsily with the pin as he attached it to his jumper. 

“It’s a bit knackered,” said Doyle, gesturing towards the sorry looking bloom. “I could get you another one.”

Bodie shook his head. “No,” he said, standing up straight and proud, his shoulders back, every inch the soldier. “This is all I need to help me remember.”


End file.
